


January

by WinJennster



Series: No Quarter 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: End!verse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinJennster/pseuds/WinJennster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wouldn't do, Cas had told him, for their fearless leader to fall ill. His presence was needed, and they couldn't risk him.</p><p>So, two days before the New Year, when the last few were well on their way to recovery, Castiel felt like he could finally breathe.</p><p>It was over, and neither he, Chuck, or Dean had ended up with the illness and they were truly out of the woods.</p><p>Or at least that's what he had thought, when he woke that morning.</p><p>Then Dean went and collapsed at the morning staff meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

Two weeks before the end of December, 2013, a horrible strain of flu swept through Camp Chitaqua.

When it was over, three children had passed away, one adult, but Dean Winchester had been spared.

That's all that Castiel was concerned about. He had known, as soon as the first few had gone down with the virus, that a few weaker individuals would not survive the illness. There were no longer facilities to care for the ill, nor the large amount of medicines and vaccines needed to treat so many.

They'd all ducked and covered, the well took care of the sick, and they did what they always did-improvised and hoped for the best.

Chuck and Castiel fought Dean tooth and nail over the course of the week, both of them demanding that he sequester himself in his cabin.

It wouldn't do, Cas had told him, for their fearless leader to fall ill. His presence was needed, and they couldn't risk him.

So, two days before the New Year, when the last few were well on their way to recovery, Castiel felt like he could finally breathe.

It was over, and neither he, Chuck, or Dean had ended up with the illness and they were truly out of the woods.

Or at least that's what he had thought, when he woke that morning.

Then Dean went and collapsed at the morning staff meeting.

* * *

"He's burning up," Chuck said quietly, his hand on Dean's forehead.

Castiel looked up from where he was unlacing the other man's boots. "Cold compresses. Wet rags. We've got to break his fever."

Chuck nodded, and left the cabin to get the required items. Castiel removed Dean's boots and set them on the floor. He then methodically removed the rest of his clothing, stripped him down to nothing and covered him with a sheet.

There was a fine sheen of sweat on Dean's forehead. His head tossed on the pillow, his lips moving in soundless speech.

Cas was worried. Dean's collapse had been spectacular, and they had yet to be able to rouse him. And, as Chuck had said, and Cas could now feel under his own fingers, Dean was burning up. His fever was soaring, and with no way to check it, no thermometers to be found in camp, it was a guessing game as to how high it was. If it was too high, the fever could cause seizures and possible brain damage.

They had to get his fever down as soon as possible.

Chuck returned with buckets of water and Risa and Yager in tow. It had become a well-rehearsed dance in the last several weeks, and the four of them had managed to avoid being sick, and had been the main caretakers of the camp.

Yager immediately set to work building the fire they would need to keep the cabin warm while they conversely covered Dean in cold sheets and rags. Risa had her arms full of extra sheets which she set near Chuck's bucket.

The fire was blazing, the room already starting to warm, and the four of them wordlessly began dipping the sheets in the bucket of cold water and wringing them out as best they could.

Castiel grimaced at the unhappy groan that issued from Dean's throat at the first touch of the wet fabric. His body became wracked with shivers, his teeth chattering noisily, but they didn't stop. They covered every surface of Dean's body with the exception of his nose and mouth.

Warmth from Yager's fire filled the cabin, and it was entirely too hot for the group, but the air had to be kept warm. With the cold cloths on his body, it would do them no favors to allow Dean to breathe chilled air. No one needed pneumonia on top of the flu.

Chuck slipped out of his jacket before sinking woodenly into a chair. The day had just begun, and already the prophet looked exhausted.

"We'll be back, Castiel," Risa said quietly, gently touching his shoulder as she and Yager made their leave. Cas nodded vaguely, the Ritalin he'd taken that morning already beginning to wear off as the seriousness of the situation hit him.

This was Dean.

Not some random camper, not some no-name survivor. This was Dean.

The man that every last man, woman, child, and fallen angel in Chitaqua depended on. This was the man that was going to kill the devil…the one wearing his own brother's face. This was the man that was the last, great hope of planet Earth.

If Dean got sick enough that he died, Chitaqua might as well give itself over to the Croats. There would be no carrying on without him. Fearless Leader jokes aside, Dean was the heart and soul of the camp.

Even though he'd become as cold and unemotional as the rocks the camp was built on.

"We're just going to have to watch him. Going to have to make sure he stays hydrated," Chuck said quietly, the warmth of the room making his eyes droopy.

"I'll take first shift. Trade out every five hours."

"Sounds good." Chuck stood and pulled his jacket back on. "I'm going to go check on some of the others. Ring the bell if you need help."

"Of course."

Chuck let himself out, and Cas busied himself tidying the cabin. They'd brought Dean to Castiel's own cabin because he had an actual bed, and the room was larger and easier to move about in, not to mention the added bonus of the fireplace.

He knew damn well that Dean's guilt over his situation had led him to give Castiel the nicest of the cabins, and of course, he and Dean had made use of that bed many, many times, the first time being the night they got word that Sam had said yes.

Dean had come to him, eyes angry and hard, blind drunk and begging Cas for something chemical to numb the pain, but the minute Castiel got him through the door, the hunter had fallen apart completely, breaking down in bitter sobs about how his only job had been to  _look after Sammy_ , and now he'd failed, for the last and most unalterable time.

He'd held Dean in his arms, the two of them wrapped tightly around each other on the bed, and something had finally given way that night. Cas had reached out and wiped a tear off of Dean's cheek and leant forward to kiss his forehead, but Dean pulled him down, bringing their lips together like Castiel had dreamt of for years.

He still thought of it as one of the best nights of his life, despite the crushing news.

A murmur from the bed drew his attention.

Dean was muttering and whimpering, struggling weakly with the sheets.

"C-c-cc-a-as-s?" he whispered.

"I'm here, Dean." Cas lifted the rag off of Dean's face. He grabbed a cup of water, and slid his hand under Dean's head, gently lifting him off the pillow. "I need you to drink this. You can't get dehydrated. Open your mouth."

Dean obeyed, but was shaking so badly, only about half the water made it in his mouth, the rest spilled down his neck and into the already wet sheets. He gasped for air, eyes rolling under the lids, a pained whimper following the gasp.

"Hhh-urts-s-ss," he moaned.

"I know," Cas said softly. He dipped the rag that had been on Dean's face in the cool water again, wringing it out and laying it across Dean's brow. "I wish I could make it go away."

Dean said nothing, and Castiel assumed he had fallen asleep again. He moved to get off the bed, but a hand shot out from under the sheets and grabbed his wrist.

"Ddd-oonn-nn't-t gg-goo-o…" Dean breathed. "Ddonn-nn't l-llea-vv-ee mm-e." His words were low and broken, the chattering of his teeth making it hard to speak.

Cas sat back down, resting his free hand on Dean's shoulder.

"I'm not going anywhere. I won't leave you, Dean. I promise."

This seemed to calm him, the grip on Cas's wrist loosened, and within minutes, the rest of his body had relaxed.

Castiel stayed beside him until Chuck came back, determined to keep his promise not to leave.

 


	2. Part II

It was cool, wet and rainy by the time Dean and Bobby got to Cold Oak. It was early morning on May 2nd, Sammy's birthday, Dean thought idly.

He ran through the mud, not paying attention to the wetness soaking his jeans, his mind running on one track- get to Sam. Find Sam. Make sure Sam is ok.  _Look after Sammy._

Bobby was huffing behind him as they drew closer to the town, the empty, abandoned buildings' windows like eyes watching them in the dark.

In the near distance, he saw a tall figure limping towards them, his left arm gripped around his right.

"Sam!"

"Dean!"

He'd never been so happy to hear his baby brother's voice, and Dean dashed forward, the sight of Sam staggering weakly making him worry, but his voice- so much relief and happiness poured into the sound of his own name.

Then he saw him- the other man, mud-splattered Army uniform plastered to his frame by the rain. Unsure, Dean watched him for moment, then his blood ran cold as he spied the knife in the other man's hand. "Sam, look out!" he screamed, breaking into a run.

But he was too late. The other man stabbed his baby brother in the back, and Dean was still running, an anguished "Noooooooo!" tearing from his lips, watching helplessly as Sam's body seized up, his arms falling uselessly at his sides. The soldier twisted the knife one last time, then pulled it out, turned and ran.

He was there now, Sam in his arms, and his brother collapsed, both of them going down into the mud on their knees. Dean was vaguely aware of Bobby giving chase, but his whole world was centered on the man in his arms. His brother. His baby brother.

"No, Sam." Sam slumped forward onto Dean's shoulder, his mouth open, his eyes glazed. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sam. Sam! Hey! Hey, hey. Come here. Let me look at you." He put his hand on Sam's back, shocked by the hot wetness and when he pulled his hand away, it was covered in blood.

"Hey, look at me. It's not even that bad. It's not even that bad, all right? Sammy? Sam!" God, Sam couldn't even hold his head up, it was wobbling, and he was looking at Dean with unfocussed eyes, lids barely open. "Hey, listen to me. We're gonna patch you up, okay? You'll be good as new. Huh? I'm gonna take care of you. I'm gonna take you care of you. I've got you. That's my job, right? Watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother?"

His voice broke and Dean touched his face, smoothed the hair off his brow, but there was nothing, no response at all, and Dean felt something cold and grim settle in his belly. "Sam? Sam! Sam! Sammy!"

Sam slumped forward again, his eyes slid shut, and Dean's heart sank as he felt the last breath slip from him, and tears rolled freely down his own cheeks. "No. No, no, no, no, no, no. Oh, God. Oh, God."

Sammy was it, the last of his tiny family, and he was gone. Dead in his arms. This couldn't be happening. This  _wasn't_  happening.

"SAM!"

Castiel jumped hard, startled awake, almost falling out of the chair as Dean screamed out his brother's name.

Dean thrashed in the bed, his body tangled in the wet sheets. He screamed Sam's name again, this time with a ragged sob.

"Dean." Castiel stood and crossed the room, pulling the rag off of Dean's face. His eyes weren't open, but he could see them moving frantically under the lids. "Dean, wake up. It's just a dream. Dean." Cas gently shoved Dean's shoulder, trying to rouse him from the nightmare.

His temperature had skyrocketed again, Castiel could tell by the feel of the hot skin under his fingers.

"I brought more water," Chuck said quietly, startling him yet again, as he let himself into the cabin. "Want me to help you redo the sheets?"

"Yes. He's so hot. I'm worried. He was having a nightmare, and I think it's stopped, but I still can't wake him."

"Sleeping might be better. He's really sick."

"S-s-s-amm-my…" Dean whimpered.

"Dean, it's ok. It's Cas. I'm here."

"Wher-re's Sa-m-mmy?"

Castiel and Chuck exchanged a sad look over the bed.

"He's coming, Dean. He'll be here soon," Chuck told him, gently patting his hand. "We need to get you well first."

"D-d-ad's g-gonn-a be-e so m-ma-d at m-me." Dean's teeth were chattering again, his voice weak and raspy.

"Don't talk," Castiel murmured. "Just rest. Chuck and I are here, we'll take care of you."

"C-as-s."

"Yes, Dean, I'm here," he said softly, putting a fresh damp rag over Dean's forehead. "It's going to be ok."

Dean's hand grabbed his wrist, his grip weak. "D-don't l-le-av-ee m-me."

"I promised I wouldn't. I meant it." This seemed to soothe him, and he let Castiel's wrist go.

Together, Chuck and Castiel re-soaked and wrung out the sheets, carefully laying them across Dean's fevered skin. Pained whimpers slipped through Dean's cracked lips, but he seemed to be drifting off again.

Castiel sank into a chair stationed next to the bed. "I'm exhausted."

"Thirty-six hours and no improvement. He's getting worse."

"I know." His eyes followed Chuck as the other man added a few logs to the fire.

"So um…some survivors got in last night. Four of them. And they said there's a hospital, about a hundred miles away…anyway, they still have stuff there. Fluids, IV supplies, bandages, meds. Me and some of the guys…we're gonna go for it."

"What?" Cas asked, concerned. "Chuck, why you? Others can go."

"Because I know where it is, ok? I've been there, and I know how to get there."

"But it's a terrible risk!"

"It doesn't matter," he pointed at Dean, "he's getting worse, not better, and you and I both know that if he dies, this camp will fall apart around us. Dean has to live. Period. And if that means risking my life through a hundred miles of possible Croat hot zones, than fine, that's what I'll do." The diminutive prophet stood his ground, glaring at Castiel.

"When are you going?" Cas asked quietly, knowing that Chuck's mind was made up.

"As soon as Yager comes and gets me. We're going to bring back everything we can. You just gotta keep him going 'til then."

"He won't drink anymore…"

"Then force it down! Put it in his mouth and close off his nose and mouth until he swallows. I know you care about him, a lot, but it's time for tough love. You can't let him get dehydrated!" Chuck's face was red from yelling and the heat of the cabin, but as he looked at Castiel, his expression changed to something a bit more apologetic. "I'm sorry, Cas. I'm just worried. Moral in this place is bad enough, and if Dean dies, we might as well just open the gates and let the Croats in."

Chuck slung his coat on, staring at the angel, unmoving in his chair. "Hang in there, Cas. Six hours and we'll be back. Six hours. Just hold on 'til then, ok?"

Castiel nodded woodenly, eyes fixed on the shaking form of Dean Winchester, covered with wet sheets in the middle of his bed.

"Ok," was all he said, but it was enough, and Chuck let himself out.

Dean had his first seizure an hour later.


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for drug use.

Castiel darted out onto the porch of his cabin and grabbed the bell pull, yanking it as hard as he could to ring the bell. He then dashed back inside, rushing to Dean's side. The other man's limbs were stiff and thrashing in the wet sheets. There was a low noise issuing from the back of his throat, and his eyes were rolling under the lids.

Risa barged through the front door, an older man named Sawyer just behind her. She took one look at Dean's convulsing form, and barked out a single order. "Tub!"

She disappeared outside again, and came back with a bucket full of water. Sawyer and Cas busied themselves with lifting Dean's shaking form, carrying him into the bathroom, where Risa was dumping the water into the tub. The tap rattled loudly as she turned it on, the tub slowly filling with rusty water.

"Put him in. Sawyer, help me get more water, this tap is too fucking slow! Cas, keep him from slipping." Risa was out of the small room before she even finished her statement.

Cas reached into the tub, hooking his hands under Dean's arms. Dean's back was arched and he was still convulsing, his limbs banging painfully against the sides of the old iron tub. He did everything he could to keep Dean's head from hitting the rim of the tub, but it was proving difficult for Castiel. Not for the first time, he wished for a return of his grace, for then, nothing more than a simple touch of his fingers would heal Dean, make him well in an instant.

He felt his eyes sting with angry tears, blinking them away as Risa and Sawyer arrived with another load of water. He clung tightly to Dean's naked shoulders as the other man bucked in the tub, an anguished sob tearing free as the cold hit his fevered skin.

All told, that first seizure lasted maybe three minutes, but it was the longest three minutes of Castiel's existence. Dean had another brief seizure about twenty minutes later; this one only lasted about sixty seconds, but it still felt like an eternity to Cas.

For two hours, Cas watched Dean in the tub, using a washcloth to move cool water over his head and shoulders. As the water started to lose it's chill, Risa and Sawyer brought buckets of snow to bring the temperature back down. At the end of those two hours, Risa gently ran her hand over Dean's forehead.

"I think it's as down as it's going to get. We should probably get him back in bed."

Cas nodded woodenly, exhausted by almost two days of no sleep. He helped get Dean settled back into the bed, and Risa re-covered him with the damp sheets. "I don't know what else to do," she said sadly. "Most had recovered enough to respond by this point." She sighed, the expression on her face grim. "Cas, you have to prepare yourself…"

"Hopefully, Chuck will bring things we can use to help him," he interrupted. He wouldn't let her finish that statement.

Risa nodded. "Castiel, you should try and rest. You look horrible."

"I'll doze in the chair. I'll be fine."

"Cas…"

"I said I'll be fine!"

She flinched slightly. "Ok. I just…ok. I'll check back in a few hours."

He didn't acknowledge her, and Risa quietly left the cabin. With a sigh, he stepped out onto the porch himself, gathering an armload of firewood. Castiel stoked the fire in the cabin back to a blaze. Settling down in the chair near the bed, he let his head droop and his mind wander, dozing off and on for a few hours.

It was dark when he startled awake, and a quick check revealed it was long past when Chuck had said he'd return. The sheets covering Dean were fresh, chilled and dripping onto the floor boards. Risa must have been by recently.

Dean was whimpering again, his head tossing on the pillow. That was what had woken Castiel.

"Dean? What is it?" Castiel reached under the sheet for Dean's hand. His skin was slightly clammy, but Cas could feel the heat under the surface.

"…Ssamm…"

Castiel sighed. "He's not here, Dean. I'm sorry."

Freckled eyelids fluttered, then cracked open, nothing more than slits revealing fever-bright green eyes.

"C-ca-as-s?"

Scooting closer, Castiel made sure Dean could see his face. "Yes, I'm here." He reached down and laid his hand over Dean's brow. The fever was coming back. What little ground they'd gained by using the bath was slipping away.

"C-ca-s…hhh-urt-ss…it…hhh-urrt-sss…."

"I'm sorry. I wish I could make it go away."

Dean's eyes fluttered closed, and he started shaking again. A tear rolled down his cheek, as he turned his face away from Cas.

"Oh, Dean. You're trying so hard to be brave. It's ok if you hurt. I know…I know you hurt. I wish I could make it better." Castiel rubbed his thumb over Dean's hand. "I wish I could at least make the pain go awa…"

A small wooden chest sitting on a table across the room caught his eye.

"I  _can_  make it stop hurting," he murmured.

Cas stood slowly, letting go of Dean's hand, ignoring the sound of protest that followed. He walked across the room as if in a trance, gaze focused on the wooden box.

Dean hated that box. Inside were the things that helped Cas fly again.

Marijuana. Heroin. Vicodin. Ritalin. Cocaine. LSD. Ecstasy.

Prescription drugs, hard drugs, uppers and downers, things that spaced him out and things that wired him up.

And at the bottom of the box, a prize from their last hospital raid, were eight prefilled morphine syringes. Each one contained 30 milligrams, and he knew from experience that it would be enough to drop Dean into a dreamless deep sleep.

Pulling one from the box, along with his rubber tourniquet, he walked back across the room.

Dean was shaking hard, his whole body tense and trembling. He was murmuring again, and Cas heard Sam's name more than once.

Cas carefully tied Dean's left arm off, just above the bend in his elbow, and gently tapped on the vein to force it to raise. Regarding the syringe, he felt a pang of guilt. If Dean had been conscious, he would have never allowed this.

A low moan from the bed increased his resolve. Cas uncapped the needle. He took a deep breath, then gently slid it into Dean's raised vein. Pushing the plunger down slowly, he was pleased to see that the effects were almost immediate. Dean's arms and legs relaxed, his face relaxed, his whole body relaxed.

There were still 10 mg's left in the barrel of the syringe.

Dean was completely still now, and Castiel decided it might not be a good idea to give him the rest, so he pulled the needle from the vein, setting it aside on the table. He pushed a piece of the sheet against the injection site, and untied the tourniquet.

After a few moments, when he was sure the blood had clotted, he pulled the sheet away.

For the first time in close to forty-eight hours, Dean looked to be at peace. His body was still, his face unlined and peaceful.

Castiel sighed in relief.

Catching sight of the needle again, with the remaining 10 mg's, Castiel thought,  _why waste it?_

A moment later, he was laying on the floor, a sweet rush of euphoria sweeping over him.

Chuck was late, most likely dead.

Dean was probably going to die.

And he didn't care anymore.

He didn't fucking care.


	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final installment of January. February will be a one-shot, up around Valentine's Day.

"Even if I was given the opportunity, I would still choose to stay with you. I would still choose to fall. There is nothing that could make me change my mind. Even as miserable as my existence is, and even with the coldness you've shown me lately, I'd still choose to stay with you. You are everything. You are my everything. And if you die in this bed, I won't be far behind you. I won't have any reason to stay if you're not here. I don't know what will happen to your soul if you die. I don't know if Heaven is still open to human souls.

"If not, maybe you'll become a star. Maybe I'll be able to look up at the night sky and find the brightest light and know that's it's you. You would shine and sparkle, and maybe some part of me could find peace in knowing that you're safe. Maybe I could let go then."

Cas sighed, and rolled towards Dean, settling his hand on Dean's chest, feeling the shallow breaths, each gasp hard won and desperately fought for.

He was slipping away.

It was New Year's Day, 2014, and Chuck still hadn't returned. It had been almost twenty-four hours since the prophet had left on his mission to the abandoned hospital.

Risa said Dean was severely dehydrated now. He was still entirely too hot. He'd stopped waking up though, had stopped crying out for Sam-

Dean was still. Still like death.

Sometime during the night, his breathing had grown rough and erratic. Cas hadn't given him anymore morphine, as he didn't seem to need it anymore, and it would likely only hasten his death. This morning, Risa had come to check on them again, her eyes sad as she left, and Cas knew that Dean was running out of time.

Not long after, he'd pulled the wet sheets off the bed, dried everything the best he could, and crawled into bed with him, under a fresh dry sheet and blanket. Dean was in his arms now, his head resting on Cas's shoulder. He could feel his heart beat against the palm on his chest, and the idea of losing Dean was terrifying.

"I've loved you for so long. I tried to tell you once, the night we found out about Sam, but I don't think you noticed. I'm not sure you would welcome me saying such a thing. But I do. I love you. I think I have from the moment I found your soul in hell. I love you, Dean."

Castiel yawned, surprised at how tired he was. He didn't want to fall asleep, he wanted to stay awake, so if Dean left him, he'd know it. He didn't want to wake up with Dean cold and empty beside him.

"If you leave, I won't be angry. I know you're tired. I know you're exhausted. I don't blame you, if you leave and look for peace. But I can't…I will miss you. So much. And there will be nothing left for me. Because everything I have ever wanted is right here with me now, in this bed. I love you."

He yawned again, and let his eyes flutter closed. He wouldn't sleep; he'd just…maybe just rest his eyes awhile.

Castiel dreamt of warm places, freckles on tanned cheeks, old songs Dean loved, open roads in the summer, Sam and Dean in the Impala, his old trench coat, Bobby Singer glaring at him over a bottle of whiskey, bees, rainbows, the eternal Tuesday afternoon of an autistic man, pie, cheeseburgers, leather, green eyes twinkling in the sunlight, an old green cooler full of beer, Sam's smile, Dean's laughter, his shyness when he was given a true compliment, the carefree way he used to sing horribly off key to whatever was blasting out of the radio, the way he would admonish Castiel about personal space, the way he would laugh when Cas didn't get the reference, the childlike wonder of having more than one flavor of pie to choose from, and Dean, Dean, Dean.

When he startled awake, Dean was sitting on the ratty, broken down couch, wrapped in a blanket, pale, hands trembling slightly where they were wrapped around a steaming mug.

"'bout time," he said, voice like gravel. "Was startin' to think you were gonna check out on me."

"Me?" Cas rasped. "I just dozed off…"

Dean snorted. "You've been out for three days. Least, that's what they tell me. I was out for most of that myself."

"I got sick too?"

"Apparently. Probably shouldn't have curled up with me."

He studied his right hand. "I have an IV," he commented bewilderedly.

"Yeah, Chuck and a couple others made some kind of hospital run." Dean held up his own hand. "I got one too. They won't let me take it out yet. Concerned I'll have some kind of relapse."

Castiel attempted to sit up, but the room spun around him, and he laid back down. "I feel awful," he grumbled.

"Yeah. Not much fun, right? Boy, I just keep showin' you all the best stuff 'bout being a human, huh?"

"This isn't your fault."

"Sure."

"No, I mean it. It's not. You shouldn't blame yourself."

Dean stared down into his mug. "Yeah." He was quiet, they both were. "I'm tired, Cas. I'm tired of all of this." He said it so quietly, Castiel almost missed it. "I wish it was over."

"I'm tired too. And I wish…I don't know what I wish."

"I miss Sam."

"I know."

"I miss the Impala. I miss… _life_."

"Dean, it's not your fault. None of this. You can't take the blame for things…"

"Stop. Just stop. Ok?" His eyes were unfocussed, staring out the window.

Cas sighed, shifting in the bed, propping himself up on his elbows.

"What did you give me?" Dean asked softly. "There's a couple of injection sites on my arm."

"Morphine. You were in terrible pain and begging me to make it stop."

Dean turned on him, green eyes flashing angrily. "You had no right. I'm not gonna become some fucking druggie, Cas."

"You were in pain! You kept telling me it hurt and you were crying out for Sam. I was just trying to…

"Don't fucking mention that name to me. Do you understand?"

"Dean…"

"Do you understand?!" he bellowed.

"Yes. Of course. I'm sorry."

Dean stood shakily, shrugging off the blanket. He moved around the cabin, yanking on the rest of his clothes.

"Where are you going?"

"My cabin. It's time to stop laying around. I've got a camp to lead."

"Dean, don't. Just stay. You're not well yet." Castiel tried to sit up, but he was simply too weak.

"Fuck off, Cas."

He pulled his boots on, stomping out of the cabin without a second glance. The door slammed behind him, and Cas sighed wearily, feeling the exhaustion in his very bones.

"I love you," he murmured softly, to the empty room.

Flopping back in the pillows, he let his eyes close, and let sleep pull him back down again.

 


End file.
